Never Christmas
by cap red
Summary: Always winter, but never Christmas' was not true. Christmas does not cease to exist by the whims of a witch, but how does a family deal with the festival in the face of war. A somewhat sad but hopeful tale that follows the life of a small hamster.


AN: Merry Christmas everyone! This was prompted by the line, 'Always winter, but never Christmas'. I got to thinking, how can one stop Christmas? It is not Santa that makes Christmas, and surely Jadis could not actually stop people celebrating even if she did try to. This is my response to that, and whilst it definitely is not the happiest story around I think it captures a certain sense of spirit. Please enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia. Nor do I own Santa. Coca Cola does.

* * *

In a cosy little home, comfortably situated in an underground tunnel and carefully hidden by some strewn leaves and bits of wood, a small creature, blinked open her eyes and noted the absence of a warm and familiar presence on the other side of the bed.

She sniffed out for her mate. She couldn't see him clearly anymore, not without her glasses at any rate, but she could still smell him, that peculiar mixture of berries and earth which was so particular to him. She could also hear him, his little claws scratching against the floorboards (which she had just got done, thank you very much). She could make out the sharp whistle of the kettle, and her dear Martin opening and shutting cupboard doors in search for two tea cups. She snuggled beneath the covers of their bed, curling into a tight ball, breathing in the warmth, her little nose twitching. Martin appeared in the doorway with a tray of food in his hand and a "Merry Christmas, Sweetheart," on his lips.

* * *

"Why do you have to go, Martin?" she asked, reaching out with her tiny paws to take his tiny claws in her own, and burying her face into his thick fur, taking comfort in his scent of berries and earth.

It was late in the day. It was the day. The day he had been talking about for months, and been preparing for just as long. It was the day she had been dreading. They stood on the entrance of their cosy little underground home, carefully hidden as always by some carefully strewn branches and leaves. Their breath curled in the cold air in front of them and their fur was wet and stringy from the damp. 'He will catch his death,' she thought, and tried to warm him with her own body.

He separated from her and looked at her beady eyes with his own. He couldn't see them clearly, but his nose twitched and he smelt her, and read her in that way.

"It is my duty, Pansy. You know that." He said it with the resigned air of someone who had said the same thing many times before; a sort of deep sigh, with a low toned voice. It was not any less loving.

She sniffed, and rubbed away the tears which were falling down her face and onto her nose with both paws.

"What good will a hamster do in a battle anyway?" she said with a small whine and a huff.

"Pansy," Martin said reproachfully, "Oreius has not just called for soldiers, although I expect all will end up doing a small bit of fighting. There will be other jobs needed doing, and I suppose I will find my place soon enough. I'll likely end up rolling bandages for the healers."

She didn't say anything and so Martin continued, "Even Robert has gone now, and I'd be ashamed to be left behind when he is doing his part. I am not a coward Pansy."

"Robert is a Pig!" she exclaimed, "Pig's are good in war! Everyone knows that when they get enough energy going they can be right powerful, and they can always be vicious. You are a hamster!"

"Size does not matter, Pansy. It is the size of heart that is important."

This was before the days when mice had proven just how true that statement was, but Pansy understood and distantly, on the edge of the wind, she thought she heard a lion's roar. She leaned in close for a final sniff and touch, and he snuggled her for as long as he could before he pulled away. She reluctantly let him go.

"You'll be back for Christmas?" she asked as his white fur faded into the snowy background. She could just make out his reply.

"I will do my very best."

* * *

For the first few Christmases he kept his word. Sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes a few weeks before he would turn up at the entrance of the tunnel, and she would hustle him into the warmth, and routine would be resumed as if he had never left. Although, he told the most wonderful and terrifying stories of camp life which Pansy dreaded hearing, although preferred to the times he would go very quiet and very still.

She loved those times, she spent with him, and Christmas morning was always special, as she would be woken to breakfast in bed and then she would make the most wonderful feast out of berries, and what insects she could find. Even when harder times came they would still feast on scant provisions and drink water pretending it was wine, and be as merry as any drunkard. Then in the evening they would exchange gifts. A flower found blooming in defiance of the snow and the witch, a jar of jam, a new apron. It was always something small, something secret, but something special.

The best Christmas was the year he returned, not to find Pansy alone but with two new little ones, born after his last visit. Little Perdita, white like himself, and tiny Jim yellow like his mother, but for a small spot on his back. Then their traditions began to change, and instead of being awoken by the sound of the kettle, they were woken by the squealing and chattering of excited children on Christmas morning. They did not know how Christmas should be, or about how Santa wasn't able to come anymore, but appreciated what they got with such glee that both parents could not help but feel guilty for not been able to do better for them.

In the evening Martin, lying in bed curled into Pansy and whispered, so even the keen eared children would not be able to hear, "We're going to beat her, Pansy. I promise."

Pansy once again heard the distant roar of a lion and strangely the sound of four children chattering and for the first time she believed.

* * *

Then came the year that Martin didn't come back. Right up until Christmas, Pansy had been in preparation for his homecoming. When he did not return, she thought momentarily that she would fall into despair, and then what would she say to her children? She didn't. She had begun to believe, and in her heart she did not believe that Martin was dead. She thought that if he was, she would have known the instant of it. Martin had never promised to return for Christmas he had simply said that he would do his best.

Perdita and Jim were sad, when they scurried into the bedroom on Christmas morning and their dad wasn't there, but Pansy did not let them dwell on their sadness. She made breakfast, and prepared a feast on scant provisions and drunk water pretending it was wine, and they may not have been as merry as a drunkard, but neither were they as sad as one. Then in the evening, they settled by the warm fire, her two children snuggled on either side, and she began to talk. She began to talk of camp life, and all the wonderful and terrible things that Martin had done, and her children listened with wide eyes and twitching noses, their bodies perfectly still, and their soft fur on end. At the end they had been very silent and very still but not in a bad sort of way.

They had then gone to bed, and as Pansy snuggled beneath the covers she realised that Martin had made it to Christmas after all.

* * *

Over the years, a new tradition started. Every year they waited for Martin to come home, although he never did anymore. Every year they feasted, exchanged small but special gifts, and drunk water pretending it was wine. Then in the evening they sat by the fire, and Pansy told all the stories she could about Camp life. Over time, as the children grew older Perdita and Jim began to tell the tales themselves and Pansy realised that she drew more comfort that way than when she had been telling.

And every year when she closed her eyes, she thanked Aslan for sending Martin home for Christmas.

* * *

Then came _the _Christmas. The mad scrambling. The hurried fleeing. The fear that any second a set of jaws from a hungry wolf would come and snatch up her or her children in their hurried escape. Hundreds of refugees running in desperation from their homes as the rumours of war spread. Worse than fear for themselves though was the knowledge that Martin, wherever he was, was in the thick of it. He was with Aslan, and the four and Oreius and the Army preparing to engage in a war with a deadly foe and her icy wand.

That year, they did not feast on scant provisions or exchange gifts, or drink water pretending it was wine, but in the evening surrounded by several families huddled together, she told stories of Camp life, and for the first time heard other stories of Camp life from other families. Robert's wife Janet told many stories which made everyone laugh, even though Robert had been lost four years ago.

As the stories came to a close they all heard the sound of a lions roar.

* * *

Pansy opened her eyes in her warm bed, in her bedroom in her comfortably situated home and sniffed. In the next room she could hear the sound of Martin's claws scratching the floorboards (newly furbished, thank you very much) as he puttered around looking for the brand new tea cups. And he greeted her with breakfast in bed with a "Merry Christmas, Sweetheart," on his lips. Then Jim and Perdita came scuttling in. She made lunch and Janet came over and so did several of the other wives with no husbands. They feasted on berries and insects. They drunk wine and didn't have to pretend. They exchanged gifts, still small but no longer secret. They were all visited by Santa and that was glad indeed. Happiest of all though, was that in the evening they sat, cuddled close by the fire and told stories old and new. Martin regaled them with tales of the battle of Beruna and the Four Kings and Queens, and what he had been doing in his long absence, and Janet told tales that made everyone laugh.

Then when they had all gone to bed and Pansy could content herself with holding Martin and breathing in his long absent and particular scent of berries and earth, she thanked Aslan for sending Martin home.

Aslan gazed on and was glad.


End file.
